


the dark will end the dark, if anything

by dovahfiin



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Bottom Orson Krennic, Closeted Character, Homoeroticism, Love Triangles, Minor Galen Erso/Orson Krennic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-10 12:04:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11126658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dovahfiin/pseuds/dovahfiin
Summary: Such is the way of the Empire.





	1. He was my north, my south

Governor Wilhuff Tarkin of Eriadu disembarked his shuttle, walking purposefully in stride with his on-world aid who was babbling his day's schedule in rapid fire Basic. The perception, of course, had to be that he had no time for incompetence or a lack of confidence from anyone around him; that he had a job to do, that it was painfully and profoundly important, and that he could take no prisoners.

He had slept for the last two hours of hyperspace travel, nor had he bothered with the flimsiplast which contained what would doubtlessly be a tight and demanding schedule during his stay on Coruscant. At the top of his list of obligations was a meeting with the Emperor - to which he was not looking forward, especially not after the recent breach of security during an admittedly shortsighted weapons demonstration at Jedha.

It hadn't been Krennic's fault, but he intended to frame the issue as such. By absolving himself, he put Krennic's position in a tenuous place; and the project was already currying a lack of support among the impossibly high ranks of the Empire. To secure for himself a place among them, he needed to be cunning - so he tore Jedha to pieces.

He waves away the stammering aid, taking an air taxi to the Palace and mentally preparing himself for what he was certain would be gentle probing from Sheev's command of the Force. He had served around Jedi for so long that he had learned to protect his feelings, to mask them deep within himself so that his true intentions remained ambiguous. Even for all of Palpatine's power, he could not crack what lay under the surface of Tarkin's mask. That inability had earned him the respect of Lord Vader and the Emperor himself, and the disaster at Jedha would prove the final instance to secure that favor - at least, enough to jettison him to a rank with which he may be able to command the Death Star project without Krennic to hover over him. Then he could begin the work of proving the battle station's potential to the very people who currently scrutinized it.

The hallowed halls of what used to be the Jedi Temple, bedecked with minimal design and accouterments specific to the Empire without even a subtle trace of the Jedi, greeted him as he was escorted by a detail of red guard. How could a once-thriving organization, so revered throughout the galaxy, manage to find itself extinct and branded not only didactic but ineffectual and fundamentally wrong?

Through fear. Fear keeps the galaxy in line. Fear keeps the Empire's citizens from truly rising and reclaiming their lost hold on the galaxy. Fear is what keeps Tarkin in the business of war; and what a lucrative business, indeed.

Palpatine swiveled around in his high-backed throne, beckoning the detail of red guard to depart. "Leave us", his cracked and withered voice barked. They wordlessly obeyed.

"You have been _busy_ , haven't you, Governor?"

"Not so, your Excellency. I am at your disposal."

"Indeed? You do not believe that Jedha is a problem worth my attention?"

"On the contrary. The Senate has been informed that Jedha was destroyed in a mining accident. Handling the crisis itself before requesting an audience ensures that my report will be thorough and complete."

The Emperor chuckles, the sound loosely reminiscent of what his voice used to sound like. "The Senate willingly consumed that lie. Well done, my old friend." He rises, summoning a knotted cane. "Walk with me."

They fell into what Tarkin could only assume was the silence of appraisal. The Emperor was always testing, always prodding his closest circle of advisers and officials - he would not tolerate failure, at least not for long. Jedha had been an unmitigated disaster; it meant that the project would fall behind once again.

"How long has it been since you spent any time on Coruscant, Governor?"

"When Lieutenant Erso graduated from Royal Imperial, my Lord, and then when she and Director Krennic were married."

"Ah, yes; and how is the new couple?" They rounded another corner in the Palace - beyond them was where the younglings used to train. Where _Anakin Skywalker_ once trained.

"Director Krennic was aboard the Death Star when Jedha was compromised. Lieutenant Erso has not received her orders to join him as yet."

"A prudent measure. Holding her above Galen Erso's head will perhaps incite him to be more devoted to his work. Are you devoted, Governor?"

"Enough to devote this time to showing my contrition now, my Lord."

They stop in the middle of the room, Palpatine leaning heavily against his cane. "I do not wish that you should be contrite, Wilhuff. My wish is that you assume command of the project you and I conceived during the Clone Wars."

Tarkin assumes a raised eyebrow. He was not surprised; he had said those very words to Krennic after Jedha had fallen. "I am honored, your Excellency."

Palpatine waves him away. "Director Krennic will remain a figurehead, but I want you to assume full programmatic command. He cannot be allowed another opportunity for failure."

"My Lord?"

"I sense that Krennic is motivated by - other desires. Things which would not appeal to men like you or I."

"What sort of men are we, Sheev?"

"The sort who know where our priorities lie, Wilhuff. The sort who stop at nothing. Krennic will fall away of his own accord; do not chase after him. I know that you gave the order to test the weapon" he says, a mocking lilt in his ancient, throaty voice "but I will overlook that transgression. Doubtless you had a greater purpose in mind."

"To obtain command, if I am being honest."

"And you have it with my full support."

Then the Emperor was gone, shuffling out of the high-vaulted chamber and leaving Tarkin to his ruminations. The Emperor never did anything without first having planned it -

And here Tarkin stood, _Grand Moff_ Tarkin, in the same room where once two brothers were eventually rent in two and became enemies.

It's never an accident, what the Emperor does. Tarkin's blood runs cold but for a moment, and then he collects his bearings and his gait is even crisper as he exits the Palace and retires to his office to assume his new position.


	2. my east, my west

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krennic in shades of gray and white; Tarkin wears red.

Communiques from Tarkin's offices on Coruscant typically signaled that one had made a grievous error. After a tense interlude on board the Death Star, Krennic couldn't claim surprise when he received a summons to the Imperial Center.

It's not that he was embarrassed or ashamed of his actions; he had delivered the weapon he had been tasked with creating. The temporary inconvenience of having to explain a ruined Holy City was a means to an end. Tarkin would hear that; and Krennic would make him understand.

The dour, tight-lipped Grand Moff sat behind his desk, hands folded on his lap, appraising his subordinate and fixing him with a gaze Krennic recognized as perhaps the way a disappointed parent would regard their child.

"I had always thought that a brilliant student from Brentaal would avoid such disastrous pitfalls. Evidently I was mistaken."

"This wasn't a mistake. The breaches have been filled; Jedha is silenced."

"Were it so easy. The Senate accepted our explanation - and that is the only reason the Emperor has not stripped your responsibilities any further."

"He took my command?"

"I am Grand Moff, now. I will oversee program and process, but you will remain the chief weapons adviser and commander."

Krennic's eyes became slits, never moving from Tarkin's implacable features. Neither man moved for what seemed like a handful of minutes.

"If I am in command" Tarkin said, dropping his stentorian voice to just above a whisper "you can walk away from what will come next with impunity. No guilt, no repercussions."

"I can't leave Galen." Orson's reply was even quieter. This was not a conversation that would be on record; this was a man on fire, and Tarkin couldn't find it in himself to relish in that.

"You aren't leaving him. He consigned himself to this fate when he went with you on Lah'mu. He chose this, Orson, and his fate is decided; but you still have a choice."

"Jyn." The name escapes his throat as though he were parched and that single syllable were water.

Tarkin's eyebrow quirks. "Of course. Spouses are rarely awarded dual appointments."

"I wouldn't call her my spouse."

"Prize, then."

"Indeed." Orson looked up at him then, the desperation behind his cobalt eyes a flare, a warning to the older man that he needed to tread carefully.

"I am truly sorry, Ors. What happened with Jedha -"

"It's done. You were doing what your position demanded."

"Were it anyone else, it would have been a triumph."

Orson Krennic had been a sacrifice. A man with whom he had served, cultivated a healthy respect, and now - admiration.

"You have sacrificed for the Empire in ways the Emperor can never understand. I cannot claim to be in full concert with the fates, but my intuition tells me that further involvement with this project will mean your demise."

"What in the nine hells are you saying, Wil?"

"I am offering you a way out. If your secret proclivities become public knowledge, if your real connection to the Erso family is known, you will not survive the fallout."

"You abjectly underestimate my abilities."

Tarkin's breath hitched. He knew of one other man, now perhaps more of a machine, who used to make a habit of similar protestations. "You aren't infallible, Ors."

"No, but I am the only one with intimate knowledge of the plans. Intimate enough to bring us out of the delays - if I could get to Galen, if I could convince him of its power and importance - "

"That you have Jyn is enough. It is killing him. The engineers working with him on Eadu have all but confirmed that he is a husk of who he once was. You've _won_ , Orson. Why isn't that enough?"

He knew the answer. He knew how desperately Krennic wanted to deliver Galen from the torment his hand had been forced to administer. He loved Galen and hated him both. Krennic clearly could no longer designate where the love ended and the hate began. Tarkin watched him from across his desk, a bit slumped in his chair and a cloud of defeated resignation settling firmly in his boyish features. How could a man look so old and so young simultaneously?

"You should be my enemy, yet here you stand giving me choices. Choices outside of the Empire. Why?"

Tarkin's eyes flashed anger. "Call me what you will, but don't ask me to explain to you why water is wet. I don't _know_ , you insolent child, but when I watched you fawn over that waif I wanted to -" he stops. Krennic looks up at him, all slack-jawed surprise.

"You want me out of the way not because I am a threat but because you want me to run. You want me to be safe."

"I refuse to answer that."

Orson scoffs audibly, rising to his feet. "And if I stay?"

"I will use your own machine to make the decision for you. The time will come, Orson, and I will not hesitate. This is the only time I will offer liberation. If you walk out of this office and decide otherwise, it will become no different to me than hunting a beast through the Carrion."

Orson Krennic, Military Director, rose silently and regally from his position of subjugation only a moment before. He locked eyes with Tarkin, nodded, and walked out of Tarkin's office without saying a word.

Wilhuff Tarkin did not move for quite some time.


	3. my midnight, my talk, my song

Out on the Carrion, all is simple. All is quiet. There is serenity, but there is also danger; the guarantee that some predator whose thirst for blood is simply greater than yours; whose survival hinges on your death. The natural order is unrelenting and it does not bless anyone. We are all equal prey.

When the Death Star emerges from hyperspace, Tarkin orders the trajectory to align with the communications tower; someone has managed to send an impossibly large data file through the shield, which the Rebellion saw to dismantling. The station above Scarif has been destroyed. Only the gods know what is happening down below on the planet's surface, but all available reports indicate that the death toll is well into the hundreds.

Just as on the Carrion, there is an eerie quiet on the bridge. Tarkin remains unmoved, watching the viewscreen as every deck officer he has does the same. They are all breathless, scrambling for their half of the kill. All it would take is aligning the weapon and firing; just one shot, and Scarif would be completely destroyed. Just like Jedha.

Tarkin should have given the order minutes ago. Procedure dictates that he should have given the preparatory order just before leaving hyperspace, but he did not. He has still not given the order. The gunnery commander's hand looms over the controls to initiate the beginning sequence of preparing the weapon. All is perfectly, dangerously, desperately still.

He's not sure if he needs to clear his throat to speak. He hasn't uttered a word since being informed that Krennic is on Scarif trying to clean up Galen Erso's posthumously created messes. But he had _told_ Orson what to count on if he departed from the plan. He had been warned, and that stupid boy had persisted in his course regardless.

He clears his throat. It does nothing to break the pall which has fallen over the bridge. No one seems to notice; the gunnery commander chances a glance at him, and Tarkin returns it by forcing his face to be completely unreadable. He knows he succeeds when the command turns back to his controls, waiting.

"Lord Vader wishes to speak with you, sir."

"Send him through."

"You did not hesitate so at Jedha, Moff Tarkin. I wish to know why you are not as eager to showcase your triumphant achievement."

For the first time in a long, distinguished career, Tarkin found himself at a loss for words; and in front of Vader, no less. His articulate parries with his superiors had abandoned him, and all he was in that moment was a man with no answers. Damn the Empire if they couldn't quell a Rebel insurgency, anyway. Damn them to the nine hells if they couldn't keep ten men from completely annihilating an entire Imperial outpost.

"I await an answer."

"Commence primary ignition!" His throat was full of glass and his heart pumped pitch through his veins.

The gunnery commanders hand flashed forward and began the sequence of initiation strokes. Tarkin turned his back on the blue hologram of Darth Vader, hands on his belt and staring straight ahead.

"FIRE!"

"Firing weapon, aye sir."

Another series of keystrokes later, and one single emerald pulse emitted from the battle station's core. Tarkin and the rest of the bridge watched as it stretched out into space and, within seconds, connected with the target.

The powerdown alarms quieted, and the bridge was once again silent. Tarkin turned to face his superior.

"The Emperor will be most pleased. Well done, Grand Moff Tarkin."

"Thank you, Lord Vader."

The likeness of the Sith Lord vanished, and the transmission cut off. He chanced a deep breath, emitting a slow pulse of air through his lips to calm him. There is no way that any of those who had been on the surface survived.

On the Carrion Plateau, only those who were willing to strike first survived. Action had to be swift, calculated, and merciless. There was no time to consider anything other than victory and survival.

"What we have witnessed here today is not just another demonstration of the potential of this battle station. Indeed, we have known for quite some time the extend of its capabilities. I will not bore you by pontificating on its profound impact on the Empire, but know this: for as mighty, for as powerful, it is still a machine and machines can be destroyed no matter the size. Gentlemen, I urge you to recognize your own mortality in this. The Imperial lives lost today could have easily been yours, and they could be yours still." He pauses, analyzing the faces of the deck officers staring back at him. "I am not to be disturbed until all pertinent measures have been taken to contain this - disaster. Commander?"

Tarkin turns on his heel and walks, perhaps with a bit too much haste, out of the bridge and into the markedly less congested space of the corridor beyond. His feet are separate from the rest of his body. He doesn't know where he's going, just that it isn't _here_.

When he approaches the first shuttle bay on his route to nowhere in particular, he stops. He considers. He wonders if Orson Krennic is dead; his intuition tells him that he isn't, but he's certain that he's just projecting an outcome he would have sacrificed himself to secure.

He walks through the doors into the shuttle bay proper. There is a Lambda class shuttle in the corner; he sees it and walks. He doesn't respond to the salutes or the well-wishes from the pilots milling about; he walks passed a slack-jawed ensign with a ship manifest Tarkin rips out of his hands without even looking at him.

"Sir, this shuttle is scheduled for maintenance -"

"And now it isn't. I am taking command of this vessel immediately."

He boards the shuttle and preps it for takeoff, and just as he's about to retract the landing gear he gets another call on his personal com.

"I sense that you are distressed, Governor." Lord Vader's respirator can be plainly heard between the accusation. "What is it that you think you will find on Scarif? The planet is now a tomb."

Tarkin stops his preparations. "My Lord, I do not intend to fly to Scarif. I wish to submit my report to the Emperor, and my official recommendation that this battle station become publicly known throughout the Empire as its greatest achievement."

"I distinctly felt - no matter. Go to Coruscant and deliver your report. Do not think that your hesitance on the bridge has escaped my notice."

"Yes, my Lord."

The transmission ends again, and by then he has completed the pre-flight checklist. He is barely given clearance to leave the station, but once he receives it he expertly and quickly flies out of the hangar and jumps to lightspeed.

Since Krennic could not speak to the Emperor himself, Tarkin would do so in his stead. He would weave an impressive tale about how Jyn Erso was a rebel and Orson Krennic was a tyrant and a fool who didn't recognize the power he wielded; that he was brash and brazen and unrelentingly ambitious and that he died on Scarif as a result. He would not tell the Emperor about the flaw that Galen Erso had so boldly hidden; he stood by what he said on the bridge, even if it meant his own death. And now that Orson was gone, now that the plans had been transmitted but their ultimate destination remained unknown. Whatever was left of his resolve had to be saved for this next encounter with the Emperor. It would be his grandest deception yet. Sheev was still a man, and he was still too trusting even steeped in the tradition of betrayal of the Sith.

So Tarkin would lie, and he would mourn. Perhaps he too would be awarded a swift death, but such things are only reserved for the noble.

Today, the wild had triumphed over man. Finally the lessons of the Carrion had truly claimed him.


End file.
